


Requiem

by ClementineStarling



Category: Hellraiser & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mild Sexual Content, Prompt Fill, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:51:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6283399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cenobite!Kirsty finds Kyle in hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Requiem

**Author's Note:**

> [viceindustrious](http://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious) prompted: "Kirsty as Queen of Hell - she has the power to resurrect Kyle somehow, and she does! In what aspect is up to you... (C'mon though, Kyle is too adorable to have his story end there!)"
> 
> Loosely connected to [Awakening](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6180295)

“Are you certain?” he says and she's inclined to slap him for the insolence. Her fingers itch with the urge, but she controls herself. It's only what he wants. He craves the sting of her hand, the sharpness of her heel pressing into his chest, any cruelty, however insignificant, however unbearable, needs it like mortals need air. After all he is as much pain's whore as its pimp. But this isn't the time for treats. 

“Don't question my wishes. I asked you if it was _possible_.”

He looks at her, his stare black as space and burning as the stars within. This is perhaps the closest he's ever come to jealousy, Kirsty thinks. What a ridiculous sentiment for a priest of hell, though she can't deny being flattered.

“His soul is here, in hell,” he admits reluctantly.

“So can we restore his body?”

“A soul is born from the flesh, it's the matter that forged it once, and _this_ it will never forget. A soul always remembers the form it's been cast into.”

“So are you telling me, he still has a body or that it doesn't matter if he hasn't?”

“Exactly.” The priest smiles and this time Kirsty cannot stop herself from raising the whip. His smile widens into a triumphant grin when he closes his eyes to welcome his reward.

__

They shriek around her, a tempest of birds, black creatures in a whirlwind of anguish. Members of her order rarely descend into the pits to retrieve someone, and if they do, it's never good news. Poor, blind, simple things that they are, they know of their craft and the unspeakable work they do, yet they understand nothing of it. They are only afraid.

Kirsty reaches out with her senses to feel for the shape of his soul and she can sense them scatter away in all directions to avoid her probing mind. So much guilt and regret and desire, she can taste it, delicious, appetising, but she can't give in. She _must_ suppress the dark hunger welling up inside her. She must find Kyle.

And find him she does.

He is shrivelled, blackened. His guilt is burning him from the inside out. What a pitiful sight. His torment is mouth-watering though, the agony bright and pure and utterly delectable. 

He shrinks back from his own name, from her touch, shivering. 

“I've come to get you out,” she whispers, cupping his cheek in her palm, but he doesn't dare look at her, only pleads to be left alone, to be allowed to stay. 

“Please, please, don't,” he murmurs, a mantra of despair. 

“I'm not going to hurt you,” she says, although she knows it's a lie. 

Her gaze upon him is enough for the soul to remember; she can see how his body transforms itself into the old shape, supple flesh, smooth soft skin, and the hunger flares inside her. She can hear the priest chuckling somewhere, a low and gleeful sound. Terrifying. _Don't waste your time pretending to be who you no longer are._

“Come,” she says stubbornly, and pulls Kyle to his feet. He looks almost human again.

__

The pulse of his heart throbs like desire in her veins. Kyle is a feast of fear, and she wants to feed on it. Pluck him apart, put him back together. Just like a puzzle box.

Kyle seems to know it, he is skittish, even when she leads him into the garden, a lush and harmonious place, filled with the song of birds and the sweet smell of flowers. She gives him to eat and to drink, but he is still wired, alarmed. Maybe, she thinks after a while he's spent cowering at her feet, barely touching the food even though he has to be starving, maybe it is her appearance-- she must look strange in his eyes with her crown of needles on her brow and the scars adorning her flesh and the way her pupils have swallowed all the colour from her eyes.

But beneath it all she is still Kirsty. Surely he knows that, too. They were allies once, friends even. She wouldn't forget that. Right? 

He shudders when her fingernail – talon – strokes gently along the line of his neck, trembles so prettily and oh, how well the scarlet suits him, she wants to paint him in it.

“Hush,” she says when he moans, a breathless gasp elicited by the intolerable stimulation of skin scraped off tendon and bone, muscle and fat. Just such a small patch, it's hardly worth mentioning, it's hardly more than a taste. She wants to give him so much more. Teach him about the secrets of the flesh, that lie hidden, buried deep in the tenderness of his body. 

“Hush,” she says again when he starts screaming. What an unbecoming noise in the face of such sacred sensation. They've barely begun. But he doesn't stop, can't, the panic too strong to be restrained.

“Hush,” she says one last time before she removes his tongue.

__

He breaks too fast, crumbles under her touch like rotten wood, and the priest chuckles when he finds them, a laugh as black as his eyes, and she thinks she is crying, everything is so blurred. 

“I don't understand,” she says, “I tried to put him back together, but it doesn't seem to work.” 

She looks at her hands as though surprised they are covered in blood. Love hurts they say, but words cannot grasp the meaning of pain.

“How did you do it? You remade me and I am still here.”

He takes her hand, he can be so tender in his cruelty. “Not all are made to withstand, Kirsty.” His tongue darts out to lap at her fingers; the blood leaves stains on the pale pink flesh, vivid carmine. 

She wants to withdraw her hand, but he does not let go, never will she realises; he will always hold her. He is as stone, eternal, unyielding. Maybe one day they will have withered away too, be ashes and dust and sand, but not now, not for a long time. 

“Mere chance? Is it really as simple as that?” 

“Chance, fate, these concepts are meaningless.” He sinks to his knees, graceful, a movement perfected in a thousand iterations; he worships desire and she is what he wants. He formed her to be goddess and altar alike. 

He reaches for the mess that once was Kyle, sweet, adorable Kyle. “You will what shall be,” he says and bathes his fingers in the stickiness of flesh that still jerks and twitches, mindless. “But sometimes the will is too vigorous, the matter too weak.”

“Can you mend him?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I want you to.”

He bares his teeth, and she isn't sure whether it's a challenge or assent. “What is he to you?”  
Memory, anchor, lifeline, crush? She doesn't know the answer. Kyle was kind when she was lonely and afraid. Not without fault or sin, but not malicious either. _But then why is he in hell?_

“A keepsake.”

“A pet you mean.”

“I already have a pet.”

This time his smile is pure amusement. “Oh, I'm so much more than that, don't you think?”  
His hands part her robes like a theatre curtain, reverent, revealing; he paints her sex with slick fingers, the true colour of pleasure, slips them inside her. 

“He was destroyed twice already by a woman's appetite. Were his offences grave enough to warrant a third time?”

How can he ask that, now of all times, when she is so greedy, so very eager for his touch? Reason would allow only one answer, but then, desire needs not answer to reason. Desire does not answer to anything. It's their only law.


End file.
